RALPH STANWELL AGAIN
Johnnie Courteau of de mountain,
Johnnie Courteau of de hill;
Dat was de boy can shoot de gun,
Dat was de boy can jomp an' run,
An' it's not very offen you ketch heem still,
Johnnie Courteau!
—WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.
Scotty was setting out for what he hoped was his last winter at school. It was a performance he considered quite too juvenile, and a single glance at him would convince anyone that it was high time he had put away childish things. His great, strong frame, over six feet in his "shoepacks," his brawny arms and hands, well developed under the toil of the axe and the plough, all spoke of his having reached man's estate. But his growth had somewhat outrun his years, and he had not yet reached the age when he might with propriety remain away from school during the winter. Besides, he had held a conference with Dan Murphy and "Hash" Tucker during the Christmas holidays to consider the matter of further education. Should they abjure the whole trivial business, was the question discussed, or should they attend school this winter just to see what the new master would be like, and, if possible, make things lively for him?
The latter course, being the more uncertain, offered the more entertainment and was unanimously adopted; so here was the young man, on this dazzling January morning, swinging along the silent white forest path, ready for any kind of adventure.
For Scotty had arrived at a period when the unknown and the forbidden were the alluring, and the lawful and the restraining were the irksome. Indeed Rory was wont to grumble that that young Scot was just going to ruin; he had never been made to mind anybody when he was little, and now he was just growing up clean wild. For since Rory had given up fiddling and dancing and had settled down with Roarin' Sandy's Maggie in the north clearing he had become a very staid householder and frowned upon all youthful frivolity. And though his prophecies were perhaps overpessimistic, there was undoubtedly some cause for disapproval in the matter of Scotty's conduct. Even Big Malcolm and his wife, who, as old age advanced, were more and more inclined to make an idol of their grandson, could not quite shut their eyes to his imperfections. He was the same big-hearted Scotty he had been in his childhood, lavishly generous and swift to respond to the call of suffering; but his high spirits were sometimes too much for the narrow confines of his life, and he was wont to break out into wild, mischievous pranks.
During the last winter of poor old McAllister's feeble misrule, Scotty and his two leal followers, Dan Murphy and "Hash" Tucker, had contrived to make the hard name of Number Nine notorious. So long as the three confined their misdemeanours to the school the public had winked at them. Disorder and ill-behaviour always seemed associated with old McAllister, everyone felt; and indeed Mr. Cameron, the minister, was suspected by most of the section to have had reference to the old broken-down school-teacher when he preached that solemn discourse upon the blind leaders of the blind. As the sermon was delivered on the Sabbath after Scotty and Dan had knocked over the stovepipes and almost burned down the school-house, Store Thompson declared he was "convinced of the certainty of the application-like."
But when the boys perpetrated acts of lawlessness beyond the precincts of school life people began to look upon them askance. Scotty had distinguished himself rather unpleasantly on the last Hallowe'en; for besides the usual small depredations which everyone expected on that historic night, someone had gone to the extremity of elevating Gabby Johnny Thompson's wagon, heavily loaded with grain, to the top of the barn; and everyone in the Oa knew that nobody would have conceived of such a daring thing except Big Malcolm's Scot.
Of course, the neighbours could not fail to see some poetic justice in the affair, for Gabby Johnny, who was famed for his astute bargaining, had been voicing a wailing desire for high wheat ever since that grain had begun to grow along the banks of the Oro. Nevertheless, though the neighbours might secretly approve of such retributive acts of Providence, the medium through which they descended was liable to be regarded with disfavour.
For while Scotty was growing up the social life of the Oro valley had been undergoing a great transformation. John McAlpine, that great preacher whose words always awoke his hearers to a terrible realisation of the solemnity of life and the certainty of death, had come to the Glen with his imperative call to higher things. And at his coming the Sun of Righteousness had arisen over the Oro hills and the whole countryside had awakened to a new day.
Other influences had been at work, too; the spirit of the pioneer days was passing with the forests, the little isolated circles of cleared land had widened out and merged into each other like the rings on the surface of the Oro pools, and with the broader outlook came gentler manners and more tolerant views. Then this young land was slowly but surely absorbing into her own personality all the discordant elements and making of them a great nation; for within the last few years a new race had sprung up in the Oro valley, a race that was neither English, Irish, nor Scotch, Highland nor Lowland, but a strange mixture of all, known as Canadian. The community in the Glen had grown to quite a respectable village, the post office adding a touch of dignity and necessitating the new name, the name of Glenoro. And best of all, there was the church just at the bend in the river, with the manse beside it where the minister lived; and such had been its influence that a fight at the corner now would have brought a shock to the whole township.